1899: A Series
by newyorktopaloalto
Summary: A series of vignettes spanning the 1899 period. None of these stories are interconnected, but can be considered part of the same general universe. Ships and genres of all sizes lurk beneath.
1. Beginnings

A/N: The first of a few 1899 vignettes. Let's start with the origins of Dutchy.

Disclaimer: Don't own. Will never own. Sad, really.

**~*Dutchy*~**

He had never gone to school. That was one of the only things he would say to the other newsboys about himself. he said it was because his family couldn't afford it and he had been working since he was old enough to walk, which was partially true but didn't explain everything.

It went like this:

He had never gone to school because when he first came to New York he didn't know English. His father knew enough to get a job at a factory and his mother didn't need to know any to clean the houses of the rich women of the city.

He and his sister never really played outside because the neighborhood kids would always make fun of them, mangling their beautiful language until she was almost in hysterics and he had to calm her down. His family had always said that she was a sensitive child.

He had met his first newsboy when he was eight-years-old. That newsboy was the person who taught him more English than, "hello my name is_" and "where is the bathroom?"

The newsboy taught him how to speak the language and, eventually, how to read it. However, when the newsboy asked him what his name was, he couldn't pronounce it and asked what language he spoke at home.

He had to think on that one for a little while. Had to think about what the American word for it was. He finally settled on, "Dutch."

He was the first newsboy to gain his nickname before he joined the ranks of the newsies.

The older newsboy kept trying to convince him to sell papers with him so he could have some extra money (which was not the full reason. Little kids drew in more customers than 16-year-olds.) He was sorely tempted, but whenever he brought up the prospect with his father, he got torn down with the words, "one day you will go to school."

One day the older newsboy told him that he was getting a real job. At a factory. His parents thought that he needed to make more money than he could as a newsboy. He never learned the newsboy's name.

One day his mother got sick. Then his father. And finally, after days of crying, his sister got sick as well. He didn't.

When all was said and done, the last of their savings going to a burial and him running away from the cops trying to put him in an orphanage, he realized that he had no where to go.

Then he remembered the newsboy that taught him how to survive in New York and thought that he owed that newsboy something.

He stumbled upon the lodging house, almost by accident, after weeks of living on the streets, selling papers when he could afford to. The old man running the house set him up comfortably and told him where to find the papers that he was to be selling.

When the other newsboys, "newsies" he learned they called themselves, asked his name, he thought of them laughing at not being able to pronounce it.

"Dutchy," he said, voice only quavering the slightest bit on the still almost unfamiliar words of the English language.

"My name is Dutchy."


	2. Endings

A/N: The end of "The King of Brooklyn"

Warnings: Character death. General angst.

Disclaimer: Still don't own.

**~* Spot: King of Brooklyn*~**

He heard everything. All those little whispers that were supposed to be secret- hidden in alleyways and basements and abandoned theatres. He heard it all. And, for the first time since he was a child, he was uneasy.

Whispers of revolt, of dissent, of usurping his power. Whispers that didn't want to be heard, but were. He had to do something. He just didn't know what.

There were very few people that liked him. Respected him, yes. Would do anything to get on his good side, of course. But very few (less than a handful, really) that he would consider to speak with.

Those people wouldn't help him now, however. They were in a different place, didn't understand the importance of being in power, couldn't truly understand what he had to do to gain his place at the top.

He slowly, methodically, gave up the few possessions that he owned to the handful of people that he, in his twisted way, viewed as his friends. There were questions, of course. Questions that he couldn't deflect, so he just lashed out instead of giving an answer that wouldn't appease.

He left them, the two people that he ever liked, standing there. One with a bandana around his neck and a cane in his hand, the other with a cigar in his mouth and a chain with a key wrapped in a loose fist. He didn't look back.

He prepared. He prepared even though he knew it was hopeless and pointless and thousands of other words that ultimately meant the same thing. He was going to go down, and the only way that would happen was his, now inevitable, death.

Because that's how you got to the top. You had to kill the one that was there before you.

And when he took power, it was easier because everyone that stood watching, was on his side. This time, however, they would be booing at him whenever he made a hit.

Being a leader meant relying on the fickle opinions of your people. And his people no longer wanted him in power.

It was an ordinary day. He and his- no longer his, people stood waiting for the morning edition. A shadow loomed across from him and he knew that it was time.

He faced off his opponent, a foot taller than him and 100 pounds heavier. The teen had a switchblade stored in his boot, he knew that. After all, he heard everything.

It wasn't going to be a fair fight. He knew that. And yet.

And yet, as he stood there, almost dispassionately, he smirked. Because he was always prepared for this moment. He knew that it was going to come.

At 17 years, he was older than the boy attempting to rise above him. Wiser, one could say. Because he knew that if you win, you gain obedience and respect. However, if you win by means of cheating, that's all you gain.

He knew the minute that he pulled the knife, what seemed like a lifetime ago, he would start to lose his position. He knew that someone would think that it was fair to be unfair.

And as he walked in the middle of the circle, head and shoulders high in a manner truly befitting a king, as he walked into his execution day, he knew that the boy who killed him would not be the winner.

Because he was going to die by knife. The leader, who would never be a true leader after the newsboys realized what they supported, would be gone by this time next year.

And though this was the day that Spot Conlon died, he would always be remembered- in time, as the true king of Brooklyn.


	3. Met This Girl Last Night

A/N: Mush and his girl

Disclaimer: Nope. No sir.

**~*Mush*~**

"Met this girl last night," he had sung, hoping to defuse the situation that was starting to brew between Crutchy and Blink.

Thankfully, his statement had worked in that respect, but then again, it resulted in Blink glancing at him, confusion evident in his eyes and a promise to "speak about this later," as his mother used to always promise cryptically when he was a child.

So, in hindsight, saying that he met a girl the night before, while true, was probably misleading.

See, it went like this:

He didn't tell his friends about his night-times "escapades" because he thought that they would make fun of him. He didn't tell them about it because he knew, without a doubt, they would make fun of him. It wasn't a question of guessing, it was an answer of absolute knowledge.

He lost his parents to a fire when he was seven. He was an only child, which was unusual for the neighborhood, but he always heard his parents whispering about "God's plan" and how he was their "miracle child," so he always figured there was a reason.

Anyway, so there was a fire. He, luckily, wasn't there, but instead at what passed at school for the children in his neighborhood. So when suddenly, in the middle of learning his arithmetic, the police sergeant wanted a word with him, he left because he was taught to always respect his elders and those in uniform.

Leaving was the worst decision of his life. He was placed in an orphanage until he was old enough to learn that the boys carrying around the newspapers had their own place to stay and that's when he ran away. others, however, left without any prospects. He saw some of them, later, in the streets begging for food. He didn't see others and bowed his head when he heard about a John or Jane Doe in the newspaper.

Because, anything was better than living in the orphanages around the town, even the refuge with Snyder was better than the places he had stayed at when he was younger.

So that's what it came to, in the end. He didn't want to see kids dying in the streets because it was easier than living in the orphanage.

And so he would sneak away from his friends about once a week and go to the abandoned theatre where the younger runaways stayed. He was the one that always found them, huddled in the streets, starving, and he was the one that brought them all there in the first place. It wasn't fancy, but it was better than an alleyway with newspapers for blankets.

So yeah, he met a girl last night, just not one that Blink would expect. She was around six, dark eyes wide and dirty hair falling around her waist as she hungrily ate the bread he offered her. And that's why he was so late to the lodging house, he was settling her in with the other kids.

He couldn't tell his friends because they wouldn't understand. None of them came from the orphanages like he did, none of them had to endure what he had to at the hands of the state. And all of them would mock him, try to follow him, and ruin the chances of life away from the orphanages of all the kids he was protecting.

And so, when Blink excitingly questioned about this girl he met, he plastered on a smile and lied through his teeth.


	4. In the Middle of the Night

A/N: Kind of a Dutchlets, kind of just angsty.

Warning: Angst.

Disclaimer: Still no.

**~*Dutchlets*~**

"Hey. Hey, Bumlets."

"Yeah? What's up Dutch?"

"I gotta question for ya. Come outside, okay?"

Bumlets opened his eyes and squinted at the sleeping boys around him. "How did you get up here without waking anyone?" he whispered.

"It doesn't matter. Just-" at this Dutchy started to impatiently tug at the thin sheet keeping Bumlets from the sticky humidity, "Just come on. I need to ask you something."

"Ask me here," he grumbled, pulling viciously at the sheets Dutchy was holding.

It wasn't often that Bumlets was irritable, but when he was, everyone tended to stay out of his way. Dutchy, apparently, never retained the information that yes, the one time people saw Spot with a black eye, it did indeed come about from Bumlets' fist.

"No. Come outside Bumlets." And of course, the one time that Dutchy was particularly staunch about a subject, it involved waking Bumlets up in the dead of night, with an early edition to sell the next day.

But while it could be said that Bumlets was frightening when angry, it could doubly be said (something that after the first couple of times, no one wanted to bet Race on it anymore) that he never, ever got seriously mad at Dutchy. In fact, it could be said (something else no one wanted to bet on) that Dutchy was the only person who could calm Bumlets down when he was truly mad.

So that is how it came to be that Bumlets went outside in the middle of the night, hot and sticky with humidity, just to answer a question of Dutchy's.

"What. Do. You. Want." he ground out, never truly coherent when he was still half asleep.

"Nothin'."

"… Pardon me?"

"I just wanted to, you know, relax with you. Or somethin'."

"You wanted to relax with me."

"Yeah."

"In the middle of the night."

"Yup."

"Do ya have any brains at all?" At this, the accent that Bumlets tended not to exude like the other boys, came out at full force.

"Ijustwantedtotalkyou." It came out fast and quiet, so Bumlets had to sit for a second and decipher the true meaning of the "," that he heard.

"You wanted to… talk to me?" he said this hesitantly, as if his answer could be wrong.

Dutchy nodded, almost miserably, and refused to look at him.

"Well, why didn't ya say somethin'? What did you want to talk about?"

"You know. Stuff."

Bumlets leveled a stare at Dutchy that he interpreted as meaning, "if you don't hurry up and tell me, I will be sure to get angry again, and you don't want that."

"I got a confession."

"Why don't you go to church?" Bumlets asked, confused.

"It's not that kind of confession." It, in fact, was, but Bumlets, who had never read the Bible, nor heard any sermons except on Christmas, didn't need to know that. He was vaguely Catholic that way.

Bumlets nodded and motioned for him to continue.

Dutchy let out a slow sigh, trying to calm his nerves. Bumlets wasn't stupid, he would figure out what Dutchy was trying to say, even if he hedged around the subject as much as possible. As soon as he said it, he knew he wouldn't have a best friend anymore.

"Bumlets I- I- nevermind." and he turned away and started to walk back up the stairs.

"I got a confession too," Bumets called at his retreating back.

Dutchy stopped but didn't turn around.

"It's somethin' that I should probably confess in church, but I decided to tell you. Which may count as a sin itself, but I dunno know for sure."

"What is it?"

"C'mere."

Dutchy did.

Bumlets sighed, the same nervous one that Dutchy sighed a few minutes ago, but twice as loud. As if holding in the inevitable.

"Te amo."

"Bless you."

"No-" this time there was a frustrated sigh, "it's Spanish."

"Oh. What's it mean?" he stopped for a second. "Is your confession that you want to teach me Spanish? Because that's not somethin' you want to go to church for. And also, I hardly get by in English, I don't think I can learn a new one."

"You speak fine English."

"Thanks."

They stood there, awkward, for a few moments.

"It means 'I love you.'"

"What does?"

"Te amo," he hastened to explain at Dutchy's bemused expression. "'Te amo' in Spanish means 'I love you' in English."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Dutchy suddenly moved, abrupt, and Bumlets fled. Not to the lodging house, that would have been too easy, but out into the street and away through an alley.

"Ik houd van u," he called out to the empty air, "means 'I love you' in Dutch."

There was no one but the rats there to hear him.


	5. The Whole Thing is About Race

A/N: How Spot and Jack became friends. This used to be called, "New King in Town: Or, How Racetrack Inadvertently Started a Revolution" but that wouldn't fit in the title box.

Disclaimer: No.

**~*In which kings are kingly*~**

"Did you hear?"

"Did I hear what?"

Racetrack sighed, exasperated. "Did you hear about Brooklyn?"

Jack glanced at him, eyes narrowed in thought. Racetrack, by now, was to the point of jumping up and down in some sort of combination of excitement/worry/anticipation. Jack let out a breath.

"I heard that there were some leadership issues goin' on there. Some people weren't too happy with the way Cat was running things."

"Yeah well, Cat's dead."

At Jack's sharp look, Race stilled and began to explain.

**~*Kings*~**

Jack could not actually believe that he was going down to Brooklyn. Sure, Racetrack always came back from Sheepshed Races with a smile on his face, regardless of how light his pocket had become, but he was _raised_ in Brooklyn. Jack was just an outsider, lucky enough to have become Manhattan's leader.

He hadn't really been friends with Cat, no one had, but they had a certain respect for one another that all leaders seemed to share. Jack had heard, from Race (who had inconsistent information at the best of times) that the new leader was young, spunky and one hell of an aim.

And that was just what Jack did not need. Some punk who thought that he could become the King of Brooklyn.

**~*Kings*~**

Spot Conlon wasn't all that bad. Sure he was young, sure he had an attitude problem that could probably be considered a Napoleon complex, but he wasn't terrible.

Or maybe Jack just thought that because of the first words that came out of Conlon's mouth:

"Jack Kelly," he had said, swaggering toward him after jumping from his perch, "the famous leader of the Manhattan newsies. I'm going to tell you one thing, and it's obviously something you need to know, otherwise you wouldn't be here."

At that point Jack must have given him some sort of look because Conlon just smirked and continued on.

"I'm going to do what's best for Brooklyn. I don't want nothing to do with the other boroughs of New York. I'll do my thing, you can do yours and we'll all be happy people. How's that sound?" The tone of his voice implied that he wasn't really asking a question, just expecting a conformation.

Jack had been rankled at that point, but couldn't really find a reason to not agree.

He shook himself out of the past and finished walking the bridge. If he noticed a couple of guys surreptitiously turning back around, he didn't say anything.

**~*Kings*~**

"What happened to Race?" were the first words he panted after barging through the door.

The other newsboys looked around, obviously not knowing what to say. He waited, impatient and showing it, until he heard noise coming from the staircase. Spot descended, looking vaguely irritated at the noise Jack was making.

"What happened to Race?" Jack demanded again, voice reaching an almost shrill manner.

"Be quiet," Spot hissed, his gaze not really leaving the ceiling, obviously listening for signs of wakefulness from his patient. He leaned against a wall, looking at Jack expectantly.

"What happened?" Jack harshly whispered, the third and last time he would be willing to say those words before resorting to violence.

"Some boys thought it would be good idea to show Race he was in their selling place."

"Some of your boys?" Jack countered, almost to the point of irrationality.

"Not anymore."

Jack stopped, looked at Spot whose arms were folded protectively over his chest, mouth a thin line and eyes ablaze, and felt a strange sense of calm wash over him.

"Is he all right?"

At that, Spot seemed to go off the defensive. "He shouldn't move for a couple of days, but I got to the fight before they could do any real harm."

Jack then noticed the small details that he hadn't before. Spot's arms were wrapped around his chest because his ribs were bruised, his lips were pressed tight to keep them from bleeding and he was leaning against the wall because it was hard for him to stand.

"Are you all right?" Jack asked, almost regretting his words the minute they came from his mouth.

Spot looked at him, eyes flickering with surprise before going back to their cool blue.

"I'll live," he announced, both to Jack and to the room at large. This statement seemed to calm the Brooklyn newsies, whose anxiety levels, Jack just noticed, had been at an all-time high.

He nodded at Jack and motioned to the stairs with his head. "I need to take care of this lot," he said, motioning once more for emphasis, "he's on the second floor, third door on the left."

Jack looked at him, scrutinizing him in an almost unsettling manner.

"You're all right kid," he finally stated, lightly slapping him on the back as he passed him on his way to the stairs.

"Shut your mouth or I'll soak ya Jacky-boy," was his only response.

Jack, despite the serious situation, had a slight grin on his face for the rest of the day.


	6. The Locket

A/N: Dutchlets fluff this time. So you all know, all of these drabbles are based in a fictional 1899 wherein people really didn't care if they saw two people of the same gender be together romantically. The way society should be now if the world was awesome.

Also, the premise of this is based upon a RP that I'm in, so I apologise if there are some things that make no sense to you. For clarification, the locket that Bumlets is giving Dutchy is from his papí, whom he loved very much, but died when he was young. It's the most important thing that he owns. And Dutchy gave Bumlets his own hat, which was very important to him, I guess.

Disclaimer: I wish. Seriously. Life would be so much better if I owned Newsies.

**~*Dutchlets*~**

"So anyways, yeah. I just wanted to give you this."

At Dutchy's stunned look, Bumlets hastened to explain. "You don't have to take it or anything, don't worry about feeling obligated, because you're not. I just wanted to let you have something that was-"

He got cut off by Dutchy's hand pressing against his mouth, his other reaching out and grabbing the locket.

"Thank you, lieverd," Dutchy murmured, before turning around and handing the clasps to the bemused Bumlets, "Now, can you help me put this on? You're the one that said the clasp was hard to close correctly."

Bumlets did so, grinning all the while. He brushed away the few hairs that touched the back of Dutchy's neck and kept his hand there for a few seconds.

"Done," he finally stated, guiding Dutchy back around and placing the locket inside of his shirt.

He smiled softly and Dutchy grinned back, eyes seeming to sparkle, making Bumlets' breath for a moment.

"What is it?" Dutchy asked, snapping Bumlets out of his Dutchy induced daydream.

"Nothin'," he replied, tacking on a mental 'you moment ruiner' at the end of the sentence.

Dutchy smiled, "There is something wrong, I know it. You can tell me."

Bumlets sighed, frustrated, and reached to tug a hand through his hair, Dutchy's hat impeding its journey. He scrunched his nose instead, righting the hat for what seemed like the millionth time that day.

He saw Dutchy smile at that and couldn't help a rueful grin in return.

"You know I love you, right?" he asked, still wary about saying it after all this time.

"Of course, and I, you," Dutchy replied instantly, making Bumlets breath go out easier.

"You're not just a best friend to me, and that's why I wanted you to have that," he motioned to the now covered locket, "That locket represents the fact that somehow, someway, I want to spend the rest of my life with you. In any way possible, I don't want to give you up."

The room was still for a moment and Bumlets suddenly realized that Dutchy wasn't breathing.

"Querido, breathe!" he practically yelled, snapping his fingers in front of Dutchy's face.

Dutchy took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, staring at Bumlets in, what Bumlets hoped, wonderment. They continued that for a few seconds, that staring contest, before Dutchy broke out into a wide grin that almost split his face in two.

"You too," was what he finally replied with, cheeks heating up.

"I mean," he started to explain when he got over his shock, "I mean I love you too, so much. More than you can love a friend, hell, more than you can love family. And I want you in my life forever as well, geliefd, don't ever think otherwise."

Bumlets blushed at that, grinning hard into his own shoulder in slight embarrassment. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dutchy move his arm. He felt, rather than saw, Dutchy's hand grasp his own, entwining their fingers together.

"Ik houd van je, Alejandro," he heard Dutchy quietly state, "I want you to be mine forever."

"Te amo, Dutchling," Bumlets replied, squeezing Dutchy's hand within his own, "And I, you."

The sat there for another few moments, softly smiling at each other, before Dutchy suddenly moved in closer. Bumlets blinked in shock, because their faces were now only inches apart. He started to blush, seeing an accompanying flush grace Dutchy's face.

"I'm going to kiss you now," Dutchy breathed, before leaning in the rest of the way.

Bumlets gasped into the kiss, as simple as it was, and pressed back. After what seemed like an eternity and a half, they finally parted.

"So, um," Dutchy coughed, rubbing his neck nervously, "didja wanna play a round of poker before going to bed?"

Bumlets nodded and got the cards out from under Dutchy's pillow and started to shuffle them.

"I think you're going to win this time," he stated confidently as he dealt out the first hand.

"Bumlets, you know I never win," came Dutchy's exclamation.

"Yes, well, I believe you have all the luck tonight."

"I know I do."

They smiled at each other one last time and focused on the hand unfolding around them.


End file.
